Best to Laugh: A Novel (24 page)

40

“
O
H,
C
ANDY,
THAT
WAS
ABSOLUTELY
WONDERFUL!
I knew you were going to be good, but I didn’t know you were going to be that good.”

“Thanks . . . I think.”

“I’ve never seen her laugh so hard,” said Sven. “And that’s the God’s honest truth.”

“Thanks, Sven.”

My grandmother and step-grandfather (it had never crossed my mind that I’d ever use that term) were on what they called an extended honeymoon, which included a trip to the West Coast.

Having them in the audience was an odd experience, and after repeating my life saber over and over as I walked up to the stage, I reminded myself not to change anything because of their presence.

Just do what you usually do. Let them judge you on that.

In the course of my fifteen-minute set, I talked about the news of the day, including the upcoming presidential election.

“I don’t think I want an actor in the White House,” I began.

“Reagan
was
an actor,” shouted a burly guy in the second row. “But after that he was a damn good governor.”

“Yeah, but when he realized he couldn’t hire a stunt double to do the boring stuff, the day-to-day governing stuff, he wanted out of his contract.”

There were some laughs, some whistles, and some boos.

“And what about that Nancy Reagan? Have you noticed she can’t stand next to her husband without wearing that weird smile? She looks like the Mona Lisa on ’ludes.”

“That’s disrespectful!” shouted Burly Man. “How come you don’t say anything about the Carters?”

“Listen, peanut farmers get enough abuse. I mean, Jimmy Carter could be the most brilliant man who ever lived, but you’ve got to admit, having the words
peanut farmer
on your résumé takes away some of your gravitas.”

My grandmother only had one caveat to her praise.

“I wish you wouldn’t make fun of Jimmy Carter,” she said softly on the ride home. “I like him.”

“Well, heck, I like Ronald Reagan,” said Sven. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t poke fun at him.” He leaned forward so that I could see his wink. “All’s fair in love and comedy, right, Candy?”

“Exactly, Sven.”

A
S
FIRST-TIME
VISITORS
to southern California, the newlyweds had a checklist of things they wanted to accomplish and seeing me perform was #1. Following that was visiting #2—the ocean; #3—Beverly Hills; #4—Hollywood Boulevard; and #5—Griffth Park Observatory.

They celebrated each item checked off. My grandmother got a particularly big kick navigating the Map of the Stars as I drove their rental car through the swanky flats of Beverly Hills.

“Oh kid, that’s Lucille Ball’s house! And Jimmy Stewart’s! Oh my goodness, Sven, isn’t that Sandra Dee?”

Sven peered out the window. “That little blonde gal walking her Chihuahua? Looks like her, but wouldn’t she hire people to do that for her?”

The observatory isn’t something my grandmother would have had on her list, but she recognized the value of compromise in marriage.

“He’s the stargazer in the family,” whispered my grandmother as we leaned back in our seats, watching the planetarium’s laser show. “This sort of stuff makes me kind of dizzy.”

A big thrill, however, was not plotted on their checklist. Having heard from Maeve what a fan my grandmother was of
Summit Hill,
Taryn Powell made the kind gesture of inviting us onto the show’s set.

“For crying out loud!” said my grandmother. “What am I supposed to wear to something like that?”

“We’ll have to get you an evening gown,” I said. “And a tux for Sven.”

“Where are we going to find—” began my grandmother, and then seeing my face, she stopped. “Oh, ha ha. She’s kidding, Sven.”

“
N
OW
THIS
OF
COURSE
IS
OUR
LIVING
ROOM,”
said Taryn, sweeping her arm. “Scene of many of the Summits’ biggest dramas.”

“Oh my,” said my grandmother, pointing to the huge fake stone fireplace. “That’s where you shot Judith Partridge.”

“She was holding a knife to my son’s throat. What was I supposed to do?”

“What this room needs is a recliner,” said Sven of the room decorated in expensive antiques, or facsimiles thereof.

Taryn laughed. “Spoken just like Baird Davies.”

“Her third husband,” explained my grandmother. “He was a real man of the people—a mechanic—and probably Serena’s greatest love. But then he died when he took the new Jaguar out for a spin.”

“The brakes had been tampered with,” said Taryn, and with a laugh she added, “you
are
a fan, aren’t you?”

“Like Candy says, I never miss an episode.”

“And now she’s got me watching it,” said Sven.

We got a tour of the kitchen set, where, my grandmother explained, the estate’s maid had canoodled with Serena’s son—not the son who had the knife held to his throat—but Jed, the handsome but cheating financier.

“That was supposed to be a one-episode fling,” said Taryn, “until we got so much mail about it.”

“Because she got pregnant with quadruplets!” said Grandma.

As we toured, Taryn greeted an electrician working on a row of lights, chatted with a woman from the wardrobe department who asked if Taryn had approved her yacht race costume, and conferred with someone carrying a script. This glimpse into a working television show was all very heady for my grandmother, but the pinnacle of excitement came when, while touring the patio set lush with fake potted plants, she met Rianna Summit, aka Sharla West.

“Good heavenly days,” said my grandmother softly.

“Did you see what they have me wearing for the yacht race?” Sharla asked Taryn. “It’s absolutely hideous.” She pivoted slightly—all good beauty queens have mastered the pivot—and tossed back her glossy auburn hair. “Hey, Candy. Taryn told me you were bringing by your grandparents.”

It was weird having her refer to Sven as my grandparent, but I let it pass and introduced both of them.

“I absolutely hate you,” said my grandmother, holding on to the hand Sharla offered. “But I mean that in the very best way. Rianna Summit is the best bad-girl on television.”

Sharla made a face at Taryn that asked, “See?” before treating my grandmother to a full-wattage smile. “Thank you so much. It’s a real acting job because I’m the exact opposite of Rianna.”

“Not quite the exact opposite,” said Taryn with a smile rivaling Sharla’s in its dazzling insincerity.

S
VEN
WAS
AN
EASY
TRAVELING
COMPANION
who not only was up for anything we wanted to do, but insisted that my grandmother and I spend a little “girl time” by ourselves.

“You two go have a cup of coffee,” he’d say, opening up his wallet and handing us a ten. “And some dessert while you’re at it.”

We took him up on his offer and money several times (he insisted), and when we went to Schwab’s Drug Store we brought along someone I’d been dying for my grandmother to meet, Madame Pepper.

For the outing, the seer didn’t wear her work uniform; both women wore pantsuits and surreptitiously checked out each other’s. (There wasn’t much stylistic difference in their polyester slacks and buttoned short-sleeved tunics, although my grandmother accessorized her peach one with a scarf and Madame Pepper adorned her scarlet one with a brooch.)

Sitting at the counter, sipping our coffee, my grandmother enthused about how excited she was to be at Schwab’s, considering it was where Lana Turner was discovered.

“Actually, that’s a myth,” said the waitress whose hair spiraled in coronet braids around her head. “She was discovered at another coffee shop—the Top Hat.”

“Baloney,” said another waitress putting dirty cups into a bus tray under the counter. “How do you know that’s not just another myth?”

As we dug into our pieces of pie, Madame Pepper made the casual announcement that Lana Turner had been one of her clients.

“It was right after
The Postman Always Rings Twice.
She was at the peak of her fame and beauty, but all she wanted to know from me was if she ever was going to find true love.”

The trajectory of my grandmother’s fork from pie plate to mouth halted.

“Lana Turner was one of your clients?”

“Grandma,” I said as Madame Pepper offered a shrug and took a bite of her pecan pie. “Madame Pepper is soothsayer to the stars. She’s seen everybody.”

One of those scruffy-looking actors who often plays the part of the defendant in television movies got up from the end of the counter to answer the ringing pay phone.

“He got the part,” said Madame Pepper, just before the man’s “Yes!” resounded through the restaurant/drugstore.

“What’s it like?” asked my grandmother softly, as she set her fork on her plate. “What is it like to see people’s future?”

My eye rolling was only intended for my amusement, but apparently the Madame was privy to it and she laughed.

“Your granddaughter thinks I’m a bit of a fraud.”

“Not a bit.”

“Candy!” my grandmother scolded.

“No, no, she does not insult me,” said Madame Pepper. “It is the nature of our relationship to tease one another. A little game we play.” One final sip finished her coffee and she set the cup on its saucer.

“Miss!” said my grandmother. “Could we get some more coffee, please?”

“Sure,” said the waitress, bringing the pot over. “But just so you know, we charge for refills.”

Having been at Schwab’s with Maeve, I was familiar with this policy, but my grandma wasn’t, and she gaped at the waitress.

“You charge for refills?”

I knew this practice was an abomination to people who came from the part of the country that invented—and embraced—the bottomless cup of coffee.

“It’s because of all the actors,” said the waitress. “They’ll sit here all day, drinking gallons of coffee, waiting for their agents to call. So the boss says they’ve got to pay for refills. But I’m from Iowa,” she said, filling our cups. “And I don’t always enforce it.”

M
Y
GRANDMOTHER
SIPPED
AT
HER
CONTRABAND
BREW
and then asked quietly, “So when did you realize you had the gift?”

“The gift?” I said. “Grandma, Madame Pepper is a businesswoman. If she’s got the gift of anything, it’s the gift of salesmanship.”

“I understood from a young age,” said Madame, leaning toward the counter to better speak around me and to my grandmother, “that the veil that covers much was not so opaque for me.”

I laughed, at both the sentiment and its clunky expression, and my grandmother nudged me, hard.

Offering a patient, slightly sour smile, Madame Pepper continued.

“For years I tired to ignore it, but after my husband died and I had no
one to rely on, I decided it was time to make use—and a living—off my talents. And I am happy to tell you that your new marriage will be both long lasting and loving.”

I wasn’t about to make fun of that pronouncement, but had I the slightest inclination to, seeing my grandmother’s smile would have stopped me. After a moment her expression grew serious.

“And what about Candy?”

“Well, Candy, as you know, is a giver.”

“Oh, absolutely,” agreed my grandmother. “She’s always been willing to share what she’s got.”

I felt as if I were eavesdropping on a conversation about someone I didn’t know.

“Yes, I have benefited from what she shares,” said Madame Pepper. “From cakes to cookies to jokes to friendship. There aren’t too many young girls willing to give these things to an old lady.”

“You’re not an old lady,” said my grandmother, defending a fellow member of her generation. “But I know what you mean. Candy had a lot taken away, but she never stopped giving herself.”

“And she will be rewarded for that.”

Not prepared to hear this sort of answer—not prepared to hear this sort of conversation—I coughed a bit as I swallowed my coffee.

“So you see big things for Candy?”

“Oh yes. I see big changes coming.”

“Oh brother,” I said, knowing that if I didn’t make a joke, I was going to start crying. “‘Big changes coming’—that’s right out of Fortune Telling 101.”

While my grandmother tsked at my irreverence, Madame Pepper winked.

“Matter of fact, I got an A in that class.”

41

T
HE
FIRST
BIG
CHANGE
that Madame Pepper predicted had to do with Peyton Hall.

“Did you see this?” asked Melvin Slyke, after banging on my door. He thrust a piece of paper in my face. “Did you read this goddamned letter?”

I hadn’t seen or read anything, including the newspaper, due to the fact it was seven a.m., and I had only gotten home a few hours earlier, having gone to Canter’s Deli with several comedians after our sets.

Stepping back—Melvin was shaking the letter in front of my face and I didn’t want to get a paper cut—I saw an envelope that had been slipped under my own door. Melvin noticed it, too.

“That’s it! That’s the letter, Candy!”

Its contents were brief and to the point. Our apartment complex had been sold to a developer who had plants to demolish it and build a high-rise, and we had three months to move out.

“You see that?” said Melvin, pointing one of his narrow artist fingers at the print. “Three months! In three months we have to be gone!”

I stood there mutely, feeling as if someone had punched me in the stomach.

“I’m glad Francis isn’t around to see this,” said my neighbor, and trouncing back to his apartment he added, “I’m calling my lawyer!”

W
HEN
C
LAIRE
PHONED
with a last-minute invitation to meet her and Eric at Michael’s, I told her sorry, but Solange was on her way to pick me up for dinner.

“Have her come, too. The more the merrier!”

We joined them sitting in a gold vinyl booth, and after our hellos and Hollywood air kisses Claire asked, “So how’s Frank Jr., doing? I worry about him.”

“You should be,” I said. “He just got evicted!”

“What?”

“We all did! They’re going to tear down Peyton Hall and build a high-rise!”

“They can’t tear that place down,” said Claire. “It’s a Hollywood landmark.”

“If you can get more renters into a high-rise,” said Eric with a shrug, “then the landmark’ll have to go.”

“That’s pretty cold, Eric,” said Solange.

“Cold, but true. When do we let a little history stand in the way of profit?”

“Well, look at Rome,” said Solange. “Look at Athens. Look at Bagdad and—”

“—you tell him,” said Claire, nodding in approval.

“I’m talking about Hollywood,” said Eric. “And Hollywood’s an American city where unfortunately, old is not considered gold.”

“My brother the poet,” said Claire, bumping Eric’s shoulder with her own. I can’t say that struck me as a particularly hilarious line, but Eric and Claire felt differently; both burst out laughing.

“Gee, I’m glad they’re getting such a charge out of my potential homelessness,” I said to Solange.

“Here you are,” said the waiter, setting down a silver champagne bucket.

Watching him pour four glasses, I asked, “Am I missing something?”

“Candy, believe me, I’m sick about Peyton Hall,” said Claire, “but we’d already planned this celebration.”

“Celebration of what?” I asked.

“Of new experiences.”

Eric raised his glass. “And starring in them.”

“I cannot wait to find out what you’re talking about,” I said, clinking everyone’s glass with my own.

T
HE
M
AN
B
EHIND
THE
B
EL
M
ONDO
had given Claire Hellman that much-coveted commodity in Hollywood: attention. People who wouldn’t take her calls prior to its air date were now inundating her with theirs. Everyone wants to work with a success, and her documentary had set ratings records, and because of so many requests it already had an encore performance.

“Of course I want to keep making documentaries,” Claire said. “Real stories about real people. But I’m not adverse to a few side projects either, especially when one virtually drops into my lap.”

“Remember when we brought a couple of people to see you at the Improv a few weeks ago?” said Eric.

“Yeah,” I said, clueless but excited.

“Melanie Breyer was one of them.” Claire took a sip of champagne. “So Melanie—from the Breyer Candy family, by the way—and I were talking after she saw you onstage, and she was saying she’d love to do a show with you—”

“Something new and fresh,” said Eric. “Comedy, but not necessarily stand-up—”

“We were talking about how there are so few women comics compared to men, and then we got to talking about nighttime television talk show hosts, and how they’re all men.”

“Starting with Steve Allen and Jack Paar,” said Eric. “And Johnny Carson, of course, and Joey—”

“—Bishop and Merv Griffin and Dick Cavett and Tom Snyder,” said Claire nodding. “And this is the really great thing Melanie said to me, Candy: ‘Women stay up late, too—when’s there going to be a female host?’”

“Well, there’s Joan Rivers,” said Solange. “She’s great.”

“But she’s only Johnny’s guest host,” said Eric.

“So then,” said Claire, her smile stretching from one side of her mole-filled face to the other, “we got the great idea of producing a talk show! With you as host!”

The Crystal Room of Michael’s Restaurant was full of mirrors and chandeliers; it didn’t take much effort to see your own reflection. There’s no noun form for
stun
but there should be because mine reflected it. Stunningness. Stunnition. Stundom.

“Oh . . . my . . . God.” My skin seemed alive, prickling with excitement. “A late-night television talk show?”

“Oops,” said Claire as she and Eric exchanged looks. “I guess we should have been a little more clear. This would be a late-night talk show for the stage. I’d direct it in the theater Melanie owns. The Swan on Melrose.”

“Oh,” I said, the skin tingling fading.

“I saw Marty Robbins at the Swan Theater,” said Solange. “It’s a beautiful venue.”

Claire shot Solange a look of gratitude.

“It’d be the perfect showcase for you, Candy,” said Eric. “We’re setting up a meeting this week, okay?”

“Okay,” I said with a smile that probably could have been bigger.